


Revolutionary

by wheel_pen



Series: Darkwood Eastport [15]
Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fish out of Water, Magic, Polygamy, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Eastport. In the Valley, Cal works on processing a group of children who have arrived as refugees. His most interesting patient, however, is the young adult who may have saved their lives. But first Cal will have to earn the man’s trust, before he can help him recover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolutionary

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe. I’ve given a lot of thought to the Darkwood culture, so if something seems confusing, feel free to ask. I hope you enjoy!

The soft chime told Cal that time was almost up and he laid down the crayon he was coloring with. “Alright, Anya,” he told the little girl seated at the table beside him, “thank you for talking to me today. How ya feel?” The little blond shrugged, still coloring intently. “Well tomorrow you’re gonna come back here and talk to someone you’re gonna like a lot, alright?” She nodded dolefully, not looking up at him. “Listen, Anya—you don’t have to be scared anymore, alright? You’re safe here.” He knew it would take more than just a few words to convince her of that, but every bit helped. “Now why don’t you go on with Dolly back to your room, huh? Your sister’s probably there, waitin’.” A rotund servant, designed to appear warm and motherly, smiled down at the girl from where she had appeared behind them.

“Can I keep this?” Anya finally asked, clutching the blue-green crayon she was coloring with.

“There’s gonna be some waitin’ in your room for ya,” Cal promised. “Can you leave these here for the other children?”

“Okay,” Anya agreed, standing.

“Can I keep your drawing, then?” She nodded, dropping the piece of paper carelessly back on the table. “Thank you.”

Anya took the servant’s hand and allowed her to lead her out the door. On the way she turned back to wave at Cal. “Bye!”

“Bye-bye, sweetheart,” he told her with a smile. Children were incredibly resilient creatures who never ceased to amaze him.

But he couldn’t stop to ponder too long right now. A servant was already adjusting the video camera in his office, saving the recording of Anya to her file and readying the equipment for the next patient on the list. Cal handed Anya’s drawing and his brief handwritten notes to another servant to be filed and asked the man, “Does Dr. Leticia have any openings left?”

“Yes, milord.”

Cal nodded as he stood from the short chair. “Give this girl to her. And remind me to write up her notes later.”

“Yes, milord. The next one, milord.”

The servant handed Cal a file that he glanced over without really seeing it. Instead he wondered what Gillian was up to, hoping she had called it a day a few hours earlier and was sitting at home with her feet up, eating something. And that Mother wasn’t berating her too much for her choice of food. Well, this was the last one he was seeing today and then he would be able to join her—for a little while anyway, before he got up early and went through another dozen or so patients tomorrow. But that was the way of things as a trauma specialist in the Valley—often things were slow, with only a handful of patients tying him to a schedule, and then suddenly a new ship would come in, full of refugees from some violent, impoverished place, and Cal would be pulling twelve- and fourteen-hour days to get them all processed and assigned to therapists. He kept only the most difficult, or interesting, for himself.

A voice from the doorway gained his attention. “Uh, is this where…?” The tone was slightly confused.

Cal glanced at the patient file again—the picture stapled into it matched the young man who was half inside the room, half out. “Yeah, come in,” he said, steering away from the pint-sized furniture on one side of the room. “Sorry, I’ve been working with kids all day. Have a seat.” The other man sat readily in the indicated chair and Cal took the seat opposite him, knowing the camera was already properly positioned. “Just so you know,” he began, his opening disclosure, “this conversation is being recorded so people can look at it later if they need to. Have you ever seen a newsreel?”

“Oh, yes,” the young man answered.

“It’s the same kind of recording camera they use to get newsreel footage,” Cal explained, sticking to the example he’d been using all day. “Is that alright with you?”

“Yes,” the man replied, though there was some hesitation.

“It’s only going to be used to help you,” Cal assured him matter-of-factly. “So that other doctors can see you even though they aren’t here right now.”

“Okay.” The patient was still somewhat wary, or maybe just confused, but Cal felt he’d done his duty with the explanation and gotten the consent.

“I’m Cal Orange Light,” he finally introduced. “I’m a doctor, a psychologist. You might call me a nerve doctor,” he added at the young man’s baffled look. The look didn’t go away.

“A nerve doctor?” He was familiar with the term, Cal saw, he just didn’t understand why he was talking to one.

“You’ve just come from a very traumatic situation,” Cal went on, relieved he could use slightly more sophisticated terms this time. “The other doctors and I are here to help you deal with that.”

“Deal with it?” The young man came from an era where only the rich could afford to have mental or emotional problems. Everyone else was just supposed to have some more vodka and get on with it.

“Do you ever have nightmares?” Cal asked, focusing his gaze on the involuntary muscles contracting in the other man’s face. “Do you ever feel despair? Terror? Fury? Do you ever feel it so strongly that you can’t do anything else?” He could see the answers easily enough. “The other doctors and I want to help you control those feelings, so you’ll be healthier and happier.” The little tug of a smile on the man’s lips, just for an instant, told Cal he didn’t think such a thing was possible, feeling healthier and happier; but that was a fairly typical reaction, especially for a first session. “So. Why don’t you state your name for the record, then?”

“Lieutenant Piotr Ivanovich,” he answered promptly.

“Mm-hmm,” Cal responded. That matched his file. “How about your real name?”

“Piotr Ivanovich,” the young man repeated, convincing in his confusion. But he was only confused because he wasn’t used to people calling out his lie.

“No, your real name.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Well, they could come back to that easily enough. “How do you feel?” Cal asked instead. “You seem a little dazed, disoriented.”

“Yeah, I don’t…” Piotr trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m okay.”

“It’s a normal reaction,” Cal assured him. “The first time people come here. It’s worse the older you are. It’ll wear off in a couple days.”

Piotr shifted in the chair, actively looking around the room. Normally he would’ve been more subtle, more still, Cal sensed, but the disorientation made him looser, almost like a mild form of intoxication. Even given that, though, he displayed a remarkable combination of relaxation and alertness—he was on his guard, filing every detail away for future use, but there was also a certain confidence about him when others usually felt fear or nervousness. He was used to finding himself in tough spots—and used to getting out of them.

“Dr. Orange Light,” Piotr repeated, like he was committing the name to memory. Cal nodded, indicating his willingness to answer questions. “Where _is_ here?”

“Where do you think you are?” Cal asked, curious. The man had gotten on a boat, sailed into a fog, and emerged in a river in a land that had to appear somewhat fantastical, or at least quite distant from the one he had left.

Piotr tried to focus. “Well, I must be—am I still in Russia? Everyone speaks Russian.”

“ _You’re_ speaking Russian,” Cal corrected, watching his reaction. “I don’t speak Russian at all. I’m speaking what we call the Common Tongue, which is the language of the area.”

“You don’t speak Russian, but I’m speaking Russian and you understand me.”

“That’s right,” Cal agreed. “And I’m _not_ speaking Russian, but you understand _me_.”

Piotr blinked. “I think I’ve stopped understanding you, Comrade Doctor.”

“Do you speak any other languages? Good, try speaking it to me.”

Piotr shook his head slowly. “No, I speak only Russian.”

Another lie. Interesting. “What’s your real name?” Cal tried suddenly.

“Piotr Ivanovich.”

Whatever he was hiding, it encompassed both his name and a language, then—likely some kind of ethnic background that was in disfavor where he came from. “Well, _Piotr_ , our two languages are being automatically translated as we speak so that we can understand each other.”

The young man’s eyes boggled for a moment. “How is that possible?”

“We have… advanced technology,” Cal understated. “Like the motion picture cameras.”

“So, definitely not in Russia anymore,” Piotr concluded. “But if not Russia, where?”

On the one hand, there was a certain danger in telling a patient too much too soon. Already fragile psyches could easily be overwhelmed by the explanations of where—and when—they were, which seemed unreasonable to all but the most imaginative people. But on the other hand, Cal had always been an advocate of telling the truth whenever possible—no surprise there. Experience had shown him that evasion of the truth often led to further confusion, even distrust, which severely impeded the recovery process.

“Have you ever heard of Darkwood Valley?” Cal asked casually in return.

He could see on Piotr’s face that he had, but he had to think about whether to admit to it. “I’ve heard stories about it, sure,” he finally replied.

“What kind of stories?”

Piotr shrugged, slightly frustrated by Cal’s obliqueness. “Just—fairytales. From old women on cold nights. They’re not true.” He studied Cal’s face. “They _are_ true? _This_ is Darkwood Valley?” The young man barked out a laugh. “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, but Cal could see he was more shaken by the idea than he wanted to show. “Why don’t you just tell me this is Valhalla, or Mount Olympus?”

“Oh, you’ve heard of those?” Cal remarked, pleasantly surprised. Clearly this man was no uneducated ruffian, then.

“Yeah, are they just down the hall or what?”

Cal was quiet for a moment, watching Piotr squirm in his chair. “You seem a bit agitated now,” he observed calmly.

“I’m not—“ The young man made a visible effort to still himself again, as Cal waited patiently. Finally he looked up, apprehension clear on his face. “Am I dead?”

“No.”

“I’m not dead.”

“No,” Cal repeated. “We can be quite certain on that point.”

“I heard you had to be dead to get into Darkwood Valley,” Piotr admitted, more to himself.

“Nope,” Cal assured him. “In fact if you were dead there wouldn’t be much point in bringing you here.”

“I also heard that only good people could enter Darkwood Valley,” Piotr went on. There was an odd note to his voice; it was almost challenging.

“Well, that’s a bit simplistic,” Cal cautioned, “but for the moment we can say that’s true.” Piotr’s lips twisted up in a smirk, his whole posture changed, and he started to chuckle a bit, in a bitter way. “That thought there,” Cal said, tilting his head to get a better look at the young man’s eyes. “That thought you just had. What was it?”

Piotr shook his head, still snorting darkly. “I was thinking—the Ohkrona must’ve blown its yearly budget on this setup.”

Cal blinked; now it was _his_ turn to be confused. “Ohkrona? Sorry?”

Piotr rolled his eyes. He thought he understood now, Cal saw, but he was angry and even—a little disappointed. So whatever he thought he understood was probably wrong. “Come on, you don’t have to play these little games,” he insisted to Cal. “It’s very impressive, but a _little_ ridiculous. Darkwood Valley. Honestly.”

“What’s the Ohkrona?” Cal persisted.

Piotr humored him. “Imperial secret police. Of course.”

Cal frowned at him. “What year is it? Come on then, what year?”

“Nineteen-twenty,” Piotr sighed, as if it should be obvious.

“Well then the Revolution’s over,” Cal pointed out. “There’s no more Ohkrona. No more Imperial anything. I’m a bit light on Russian history from this era, but that seems pretty obvious.”

Uncertainty was stealing back over Piotr’s features. “History? Wha--? No, no, I must be in—um—“ He tried to reason it out. “Britain, or France. There’s thousands of Russian refugees there. Including members of the Imperial regime, or the Provisional Government.”

“Oh, you think this is an interrogation,” Cal realized. That was interesting, though not unexpected. He would’ve accused the younger man of watching too many episodes of _The Prisoner_ , except he’d come from a time before television had even been invented. “Well, I _have_ participated in those before for different countries, on a temporary consulting basis.” Full disclosure and all. “But in this case I’m just trying to help you. So—lieutenant. Is that a military rank?” Piotr gave him a stony stare, or tried to. “Not military. Police? Police then. You seem awfully young to be a lieutenant with the police, even in a revolutionary government,” Cal remarked. “You must be awfully good at what you do. You must be awfully good at telling when people are lying to you,” he continued leadingly. “Putting aside the _obviously_ ridiculous words, do you think I’ve lied to you at all?”

They were both silent for a long moment. “There was something about the year,” Piotr finally came up with, but they both knew he was stretching it. “You didn’t know what I was going to say, exactly. That’s weird.”

“That’s complicated,” Cal dismissed. Full disclosure—one step at a time, though. “Anything else? Any lies at all?”

“You could be mad,” Piotr pointed out. “ _I_ could be mad,” he added darkly.

“Well, that _is_ always a possibility,” Cal agreed. “But I don’t think that’s the case here. You’ve been here two days, you’ve been walkin’ around. Have you got a better explanation, then? You really think this is some kind of political thing? No,” he answered for the young man. “But I’m very curious about something. You didn’t _really_ disbelieve me until we discussed how only _good_ people could enter the Valley. Though I use that term loosely.” Piotr’s eyes flickered down and to the side. “Shame,” Cal identified. “You don’t think you’re a good person? No. But you worked for the police. Aren’t they charged with helping people, preventing crime, keeping the peace? That’s interesting,” he commented, scrutinizing Piotr’s expression.

“Do I even need to say anything?” the other man asked, a bit sarcastically.

“Feel free to jump in at any time,” Cal assured him. When Piotr said nothing, Cal continued his questions. “So—the police. Not a force for good? Not your particular division?”

“It’s a matter of opinion,” Piotr replied, with bitterness.

“Your opinion,” Cal clarified. “Not doing good things. But you’re _here_. So—not the job you signed up for? No. _You_ changed, not the job. What happened?” It wasn’t that Piotr was stonewalling him, really; it was more like he didn’t know where to begin. “I’ve been talking to a lot of the children who came with you on the ship. They said you saved them.” Piotr was already shaking his head. “You _didn’t_ save them?” Cal probed skeptically.

“I’m no hero.”

“Well, that’s tricky to define,” Cal shrugged. “But they say the only reason they’re alive is because of you.” He assessed Piotr’s expression. “Not what you meant to do? Not what you went there to do? Mm-hmm. Just an accident, then, that you saved them? No. You were there to hurt them, but you saved them instead.”

“Is everyone around here like you?” Piotr demanded. “Some kind of—mind-reader?”

“No, not at all.”

“Good!”

“Yeah, that’s what my wife says. You’re surprised that I’m married,” Cal surmised.

“You’re not wearing a ring,” Piotr pointed out. It seemed as if he had taken note of that earlier.

“We don’t wear wedding rings here,” Cal explained. “Well, not everybody. My wife wears one, but I thought it was a bit weird. She’s not really from here, though.” With some patients it was important to keep the personal and professional lives separate; but with others, a bit of personal information made the therapist seem more human and relatable. Cal judged that Piotr fell into the latter category.

“Where’s she from?” he asked curiously.

“Scotland, actually.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“Two. And one on the way,” Cal added.

“Congratulations,” Piotr told him, but there was a slight hitch to the word.

“You were going to say something else,” Cal pointed out.

“Nothing bad,” he evaded, and Cal could see this was true. Interesting.

“Did you leave anyone behind when you came here?” Cal asked. “That’s good. Well, simpler.”

“If I _had_ left someone behind—would I be allowed to leave?” Piotr asked. “To get them and bring them back? Hmm,” he continued, before Cal could speak. “Leave—yes. Return… maybe not.”

“You _are_ good at this,” Cal remarked, keeping his enthusiasm in check. No need to exaggerate the man’s abilities—it wasn’t as if Cal were _trying_ to deceive him. “It’s true, you can leave whenever you want, you’re not a prisoner here. But not everybody gets in. Not even all good people, or people who’ve been accepted before.”

“Who determines that?” Piotr asked. “There were no border guards, no customs officials. Doesn’t work like that, huh?” he concluded as Cal blinked at him. “Magic fairies?”

“Simplistic,” Cal smirked, “but we can go with that for the moment.” He was about to return them to the topic of Piotr’s recent activities, unpleasant though they were, when the younger man sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked instead. A servant immediately appeared behind Piotr’s left shoulder—just beyond where Cal had been looking—and offered a glass of water. In retrospect, Cal decided, that was probably a mistake.

Piotr sprung from his chair immediately, startled by the servant’s sudden arrival, his body tensed to leap. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Cal insisted, careful to stay in his own seat and not exacerbate the situation. “It’s alright, it’s just Manny, he works here.” Technically, the servants were manifestations of a collective consciousness, not individuals with names and personalities; but around the counseling center they assumed semi-permanent identities, to better assist with minds that were already troubled. “Are you thirsty? It’s alright.”

Piotr looked between Cal and the reassuring servant a few times, then slowly relaxed. He took the glass. “Thanks,” he told the uniformed man. “Um—sorry. I just didn’t hear you.”

“It’s alright, sir,” the servant replied, bowing slightly.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’” Piotr told him.

“If you’d like to sit back down,” Cal encouraged, before he had to hear some kind of socialist dogma about the equality of all citizens. To be honest, the Valley was probably far closer to a socialist nirvana than the Bolshevik revolutionaries ever dreamed possible. Only with far fewer ridiculous speeches.

The younger man settled back down in his chair, still slightly tense, and took a sip from the glass. Which he immediately spit back. “What _is_ this?” he demanded.

“Water,” Cal replied. “It’s fine, it’s clean. We drink it here all the time. Think of it as… boiled.”

Piotr held the glass up to the light. “It’s so clear,” he marveled. “Advanced technologies, huh?” he commented, glancing at Cal. The older man shrugged, not wanting to get into a detailed discussion of the Valley’s resource management capabilities at the moment. Piotr tasted the water again experimentally, then suddenly turned to look around the room—left, right, behind him, even up at the ceiling. “Where’d—uh—Manny go?” he questioned, thoroughly confused.

“Do you need something?” Cal countered, also not wanting to bring up servant metaphysics just yet. “I can call him back.” _Better use the door this time_ , he instructed mentally.

Piotr shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t need anything. He’s just—I didn’t hear him approach at all. And I didn’t hear him leave. In fact,” he added, a bit uncomfortably, “I don’t hear _anything_ —voices in other rooms, the wind outside…”

“I’m sure your hearing’s as good as your reflexes,” Cal observed, “but things are very well-insulated here. And the servants are extremely quiet.”

“You’re not telling me something,” Piotr accused.

“I’m not telling you a _lot_ ,” Cal clarified baldly. “But I think I’ve told _you_ more than you’ve told _me_.” Piotr tightened up again in the chair, thinking of all the things he was sure Cal wanted to know. “So—you were working at the factory, but you’re also on the police force. Some kind of undercover job?”

“Cheka,” Piotr replied quietly, staring at the glass in his hands.

“Pardon?” The ship had just come in two days earlier and Cal had been swamped with assessments—no time to brush up on his history. He would have to _make_ the time tonight. _Get me some reference books on the Bolshevik Revolution._

“Cheka,” Piotr repeated, clearing his throat. “The All-Russian Extraordinary Committee to Combat Counter-Revolution and Sabotage,” he added, with increasing mockery.

Cal raised an eyebrow slightly. “I see why you abbreviate it. You’re a member?”

Piotr nodded. “That’s the _Party’s_ secret police.” He squirmed more in his chair and sipped the water; Cal waited patiently for him to continue, though his stare was unrelenting. “I worked for them since it began, three years ago. I worked for the Revolution when the Imperialists were still sitting in their golden castles, pretending they understood the plight of the Russian peasant.”

“Spy?” Cal suggested mildly, already envisioning the chastising look Gillian would give him when he went home and told her how much he loved his job. But where else in the world would he be talking to a World War I-era socialist revolutionary? One this young anyway.

“Agent,” Piotr corrected. “I didn’t work anywhere important, I was just good at carrying out missions.”

“Assassinations?” A World War I-era socialist _assassin_! His father was going to be incredibly jealous.

“Sometimes,” Piotr admitted. “Or just setting off bombs, encouraging anarchy. It wasn’t hard, not with all the hunger, poverty, the millions dying in the war…”

“Don’t minimize,” Cal chided lightly. He switched tactics before Piotr could register offense. “How did you avoid serving in the war? Too young?”

Piotr smirked. “They were taking boys younger than me, anyone who could walk and fire a gun by the end. But I dodged it. I wasn’t gonna be meat for the trenches.”

“You lost someone in the war,” Cal surmised. Piotr started to speak but the other man cut him off. “Oh, I’m sure half the men in your neighborhood were sent off,” he agreed. “But you lost someone in particular. Father? Brother? Older brother. Resentment,” Cal decided, seeing his expression. “Did he leave the family willingly, for love of the status quo?”

“He _volunteered_ ,” Piotr agreed, almost in a sneer. “For love of the Little Father. The Tsar,” he clarified. “Do you people not have newspapers here?” he added in a slightly lighter tone. “I was told the international press was full of stories about the socialist menace.”

“Actually, we _don’t_ get much international news here,” Cal admitted, though that wasn’t the reason he didn’t understand some of the younger man’s references. “So you avoided military service and started working for the Revolution,” he summarized, to get them back on track. They had circled the main question several times now as Piotr worked up to it in his mind, but Cal really needed some answers about what had brought him to the Valley before the session ended—the Council would be asking. Demanding, really—the Valley had let Piotr in, but the Council still had the responsibility to throw him out if they thought he would be a disruptive influence. “Why were you at that factory?”

Piotr set the glass of water down on the table beside his chair and clasped his hands together in his lap, fortifying himself. He no longer seemed to worry that Cal was an enemy agent trying to get information from him—or more accurately, he didn’t care. He more than half expected to be punished somehow for his confessions anyway. Maybe he even welcomed it. “It was a sheet-metal factory in Primorsk,” he began, “a workhouse, actually, for orphans. There were accusations that the owner was sending his profits abroad, to aid the Imperialist cause. So I was sent to get a job there, as an assistant, and look into it. The accusations were true,” Piotr went on, “so I contacted my superiors and waited for their instructions.”

“Which were?” Cal prompted when Piotr paused. The events were undoubtedly flashing through the young man’s eyes like a movie as he stared, unfocused, at a corner of the ceiling; but contrary to Piotr’s earlier accusation Cal wasn’t _entirely_ able to read minds, not without a few hints anyway. “What were your orders?”

“To burn the factory down,” Piotr responded dully. “With all the workers—the children—inside it.”

The rest of the story clicked rapidly into place for Cal. “But you refused, and instead you somehow got the children down to the docks and onto a Darkwood ship.” That would explain why he’d been allowed into the Valley, despite his violent past—children were so highly valued in the Valley that rescuing some could negate a number of sins. But surely disobeying orders alone wouldn’t bring that look of despair into Piotr’s eyes. “But not without personal cost to you,” Cal decided.

“I don’t understand why they told me to do that,” Piotr said, instead of answering Cal directly. “The man was a traitor to the Revolution and he deserved to be punished, but—why the children? They were Russians. They were the Russian people the Party was supposed to protect.”

“Orphans are habitually preyed upon around the world,” Cal pointed out neutrally. “Fewer people notice their absence.”

Piotr nodded slowly. “They wanted a tragedy,” he replied, though Cal wasn’t sure if he was just speculating or finally understanding. “They wanted to say the Imperialist traitor murdered the good Russian children. He would probably have been lynched by a mob in the streets. If I weren’t supposed to kill him first.”

“What happened?”

“It wasn’t a one-man job,” Piotr finally revealed. “Two… colleagues were sent to help me. They didn’t agree that the children should be spared.”

“You killed them,” Cal surmised. “To save the children. They wouldn’t have let you get away with it. But it wasn’t strangers you had to kill, was it?”

Piotr shook his head several times. “Dmitri and Vassily. Men I had known for years. We argued in a room of the factory, an office, for hours, with the owner dead on the floor between us. The factory doors were locked—Vassily had the key. But I couldn’t just send the children out into the night anyway—it was too cold. They had nowhere to go. Dmitri said, we could shoot them all first, that would be kinder than letting them die in the fire. That was his attempt at compromise.”

“And yours?” Cal asked, already certain of the answer.

Piotr’s smile held no warmth. “Well, I was always faster than they were.” The smile faded. “The fire started anyway, and the locals swarmed around it… I didn’t know what to do with the children, where to take them, where they would be safe.” The frustration was evident in his voice. “We ran to the docks, through the snow, the night, with half the city screaming behind us. I guess I thought maybe I could _steal_ a ship—“ He sighed. “I don’t think I had a plan at all.”

“But then you saw the ship,” Cal suggested. Piotr nodded, sagging exhaustedly in the chair. Cal suspected this was the first time he’d thought about that night since it happened. “The ship with the black tree on the white sail. And you knew the children would be safe on it.”

“The crew saw us, I guess, and started shouting, waving us over,” Piotr agreed. “My grandmother used to draw that tree in the dirt with a stick when she told her stories…” He shook himself a little, trying to smile. “Kind of dangerous, isn’t it, to just fly that sail everywhere you go? Or are people too afraid to bother you?”

“Most people can’t see the tree,” Cal informed him, watching his reaction closely. “It just looks like a white sail.”

Disbelief crossed the younger man’s face, along with the tiniest glimmer of understanding and, possibly, hope. But they were all drowned out by fatigue a moment later. “What happens now, Comrade Doctor?” he asked after a long pause.

“Well,” Cal decided, a bit regretfully, “you’re gonna go back to your room now. Or you can go elsewhere in the Valley, but I think you could use some sleep.”

Piotr snorted. Cal imagined sleep was a long time coming for a man like Piotr, who had so suddenly realized all the things he had done that were worthy of nightmares. “What do you do with the kids here?” he asked curiously.

“They’ll be adopted by families here,” Cal informed him. “There’s plenty of room, no orphanages or workhouses. They’ll go to school, have time to play, proper nutrition.” As far as he could tell all the children Piotr had rescued were under fifteen; but any that were older would merely be sponsored instead of adopted. The younger man didn’t look like he was able to handle the nuances of the system just yet, though.

“That’s nice,” Piotr remarked. His words slurred a bit and he forced himself back upright in the chair.

“Just one more question,” Cal promised. “What’s your real name?”

The other man smirked a bit. “Eli,” he finally said. “Eli Loker. Dropped it when I dodged the army.”

“You drop being Jewish, too?”

Piotr—Eli—was only mildly surprised at this point. “Obviously not well enough. I almost said ‘mazel tov’ when you told me your wife was expecting.”

“I thought Lenin condemned anti-Semitism,” Cal remarked, having no idea where he’d come up with that tidbit.

“Comrade Lenin also condemns _religion_ ,” Eli pointed out. “All kinds. Anyway, I’ve never heard of a place where it was better to be a Jew than not. Unless maybe King David’s on the throne.”

“Go get some sleep,” Cal suggested, shuffling the notes in his lap with finality. “Manny’s waiting outside the door. Ask for some herbal tea. It helps.” He stood and watched Eli force himself out of his own chair, heavy-limbed. “We’ll talk later.”

The younger man nodded. “In the waiting room someone said you don’t shake hands,” he said suddenly, seemingly reluctant to leave.

“That’s right,” Cal agreed. “We bow a lot, though.” He demonstrated and Eli tried to mimic it, without falling over.

“Thanks… Doctor,” he added, before Manny opened the door and drew him out. With luck he’d be asleep before he hit the mattress.

Cal stood in his office thinking for a long minute before another servant prompted him. “Milord? May I file this?”

“Oh. Yes,” Cal agreed, handing him the paperwork. “Did you find some books for me? Send them home.” He could start perusing them tonight before bed.

“Yes, milord. Would you like to know which doctors have openings, milord? For the patient Ivanovich, Piotr?”

“Correct that to Loker, Eli,” Cal ordered. “The other’s an alias. And no—I’ll take him on myself.”


End file.
